


Waiting for Johnlock

by ember88, Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Christmas, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Home for Christmas, Humor, Idiots in Love, John Watson is a Good Boyfriend, John Watson is a Good Parent, M/M, Parenthood, Parentlock, Romance, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Smut, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-08-20 18:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 11,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember88/pseuds/ember88, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: “You want to go outside? At three in the morning?” Sherlock raises a curious eyebrow.“Yes. I want to go outside and dance in the snow with you.”The smile on his face is as unique as a snowflake and I let it melt on my lips.25 (Christmas) ficlets. Merry Christmas!





	1. The Note

**Author's Note:**

> A big 'Thank you' to Amelia and Kim, my wonderful Beta Readers. I couldn't have done it without you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cute weather watching in 221B

“John. John, wake up.” 

The duvet gets lifted a moment later, and if the yelling hadn’t woken me up already, the cold feet against my calves would have done the job. 

I try to move away, bury my face in the pillow. “What is it?” 

Long arms wrap around me, and as I open my eyes I realise it’s still dark outside. 

“Case?” I ask, turning to lay on my back. 

Warm lips find my neck. “Not quite. Come and see.” 

“Sherlock Holmes is getting excited by something that isn’t murder?” I run my fingers through his hair. “Or me, for that matter?” 

I grin at my own joke, and so does he. 

“You and murder are my favourite things.” Sherlock rolls out of bed.

He helps me to my feet and I get dragged to the living room. I stumble after him and get placed in front of the window.

Baker Street is covered in a thin layer of snow, a few rare flakes dropping from the sky. 

“Snow, John.” Sherlock whispers, and I feel a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders. 

Sherlock fits himself to my back, chin resting on the top of my head. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

It’s beautiful how this brilliant, amazing man gets excited by something as simple as snow and it’s beautiful how he wants me to be part of what excites him, I think as I lean back against him. 

“I did my first experiments on snow when I was four. I tried to put snowflakes on slides and look at them under the microscope. Father helped me. He was always very supportive of my curiosity.” 

I turn in his arms, kiss his chin. “Get your coat on, love.”

“You want to go outside? At three in the morning?” Sherlock raises a curious eyebrow. 

“Yes. I want to go outside and dance in the snow with you.” 

The smile on his face is as unique as a snowflake and I let it melt on my lips.

  
  



	2. The Note

Dear neighbours,

 

My husband and I are very happy for you two. Over all these years we have been anxiously hoping you two might finally figure things out. 

That said, we would be eternally grateful if you could keep the noise to a minimum over the next few days. David’s parents will be staying over for Christmas and we doubt they would appreciate hearing the ‘oh Johns’ and ‘harder Sherlocks’ at four in the morning, 

 

Thank you and have a Happy Christmas.

 

D&S

 


	3. Grandparents

“Oh come here, my darling boy. How have you been?” Mummy wraps her arms around me and I let her.  

“We have been quite well. John sends his well-wishes.” I nod at father, who is standing in the doorway. He nods back curtly. 

Mummy luckily gets distracted from hugging me when Rosie looks up at her with her Watson-blue eyes. 

“Oh, you brought little Miss Watson. Hello dear.” Mummy picks Rosie up and kisses her cheeks. “My, you have grown. Look how big she is.” It’s a good thing that Rosie likes people. And her being adorable keeps my mother from fussing about me too much. We both win in this. 

“Come on in, you two. I made scones, they’re still warm. Shoes off.” 

I do as she says and follow her to the kitchen. The room, except for a few trinkets here and there, hasn’t changed at all over the past twenty years. 

Mummy has already started with Christmas decorations, and Rosie is fascinated by the lights in the window.

Father sits next to me, eyes on little Watson. 

“Would you sit down for a moment, dear? I think our son has something to tell us.”

Father is as observant as he is quiet. I should have known he would notice the nervous twitching of my fingers. 

Mummy places a plate in front of me, bouncing Rosie on her lap as she sits. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” She looks at me curiously.

I produce a piece of paper from my coat pocket. “John asked me to sign these. I agreed.” 

Father puts his glasses on to read. His smile grows wider.

“We are officially grandparents, then.” 

Mummy breaks into tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you guys like the advent calender so far?


	4. This was supposed to be romantic

“Candlelit dinner on Christmas Eve. Very romantic.” Angelo smiled and placed the bottle between them on the table. “I’ll make some panna cotta for your dessert.”   
John nodded. “Thank you, Angelo.”   
This really was very romantic. For the first time in a long time they had time just to themselves, and as a special treat they had decided go out to dinner.   
They had enjoyed Spaghetti Aglio Olio and shared some red wine.   
Sherlock talked about their last case and John praised him and held his hand on the table.   
They weren’t often openly affectionate with each other. They were private men, and didn’t want their pictures on Twitter within a minute. But Angelo’s was relatively quiet tonight, and their table was a little secluded, so they made an exception just this once.  
Angelo brought their panna cotta a while later and they started eating.   
John tasted blood before he felt the pain.   
“Fuck.” He spit out, and between blood and partially chewed dessert, he saw something shimmery.   
“John.” Sherlock looked shocked, hurrying to his side. “You’re bleeding. That wasn’t part of the plan.” 

 

Two hours later they left A&E. Somehow, on Christmas, it was even more crowded than usual, and after having to wait for what felt like years, John just decided to leave. His tooth would be fine for now. He could go see his dentist soon and he still had some Nurofen at home, should he need it.   
He was annoyed. The evening had started so perfectly and they had ended it staring at the white wall in some hospital hallway. What a drag.   
He huffed a frustrated sigh.   
“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock said for what must have been the thirtieth time. Taking a deep breath, John swallowed his anger and annoyance. Sherlock had tried to be romantic. This had just been a case of bad luck. Proposals just never went well when it came to him.   
Walking towards Baker Street, John stopped to look at his boyfriend.   
“Yes.”  
“Yes?”  
“Yes, I want to marry you. Give me my ring, will you?”


	5. Bedside Manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word "cock" is mentioned in this ficlet :P

“John?”

**“Yes, love?”**

“It’s Christmas.” 

**“I know. Happy Christmas.”**

“Happy Christmas. Can I unwrap my present?” 

**“You already have your hand down there. No need to ask anymore.”**

“Bedside manner.”

**“Ha, you don’t even know what that word means.”**

“Of course I do. It means…”

**“Do shut up and kiss me.”**

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” 

**“Calling my cock your Christmas present is very corny, by the way.”**

“You love it.”

**“God yes, I do.”**

 


	6. The Greatest Gift of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story includes mpreg

“Thank you all so much for coming, guys.” John raised his glass and looked at all of their guests. Sherlock, standing by the window, had just finished the most wonderful song. Putting away his violin, the detective came to stand next to John. 

“Sherlock and I have a present for all of you. And we want you to all open it at the same time.” 

Mrs. Hudson, cheeks already flushed from all the champagne she had had, started giggling. “You’re sending us all on a cruise or something. We do deserve a holiday, don’t we, Molly?” 

“Not quite as relaxing, I’m afraid.” John smiled. He handed an envelope to each of the women and one to Greg. “There you go.”

John took Sherlock’s hand. He was excited about this, and Sherlock’s hand were also a little sweaty, which was proof enough for John that he was suffering from the same sentiment. 

“Oh, I know. These are wedding invitations. You’re finally tying the knot.” Greg had turned the envelope in his hands and looked at it from every side. 

“Oh boys. That’s a wonderful present. I’m going to bake the cake. I already have so many ideas.” Mrs Hudson beamed. 

“I still wonder how you managed to become a police officer.” Sherlock said at the same time, and John knew that the venom in his voice came from insecurity. Sherlock was always meanest when he felt overwhelmed. John stroked his hand to calm him a little. 

“Not an invite, then? At least it can’t be body parts.” Molly tried to joke, and John even chuckled a little, just to be polite. 

“You could just open it.” 

Grinning, they do and Mrs. Hudson is the first to react. She flung her arms into the air and squealed.. “My boys.” She started crying. 

A moment later John was enveloped into a bear hug by Lestrade. “Congrats, mate. Should have noticed that glow on you.” 

John was hugged five more times, as Sherlock redirected all off the hugs meant for him to the doctor.

“This picture was taken at my twelve weeks scan.” John rested his hand on his belly, hidden behind his favourite jumper. This was perfect, just like he had imagined. 

“I do have another present, for John actually.” 

Sherlock picked it up from under the tree and John gasped.  

“I’ll do the cake for the reception.” Mrs. Hudson smiled.

  
  



	7. In Front of the Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of sexual intercourse :D

You want to be romantic for John today. He likes Romance and also it’s the day before Christmas and he has to work until seven. He hates that, and as much as you find him adorable when grumpy, you want him to feel better. 

 

You google romantic things to do and get to work. You move the chairs and start a fire, this time in the fireplace. You put on music and drag the quilt to the living room. You take a shower and put on his favourite shirt, the purple one. There is a bottle of expensive wine Mrs. Hudson brought for her sister as a Christmas present. She will surely understand you needed to borrow it. 

Just before half-seven you light some candles on the mantle and those on the Christmas tree. You sit down at the desk, pretending to be casual. You feel a little nervous, though. You have never done anything like this for John. This whole relationship thing is relatively new for you. That’s why you have a detailed plan. Everything is scheduled to guarantee the ultimate romance. You want it to be perfect for John. 

John texts you about about being home in five minutes. You don’t answer. 

You hear John’s steps on the stairs. You think about getting up, and decide it would be awkward. 

He looks tired, long scarf wrapped around his neck and talented hands in gloves. His nose and cheeks are a little red and you want to kiss them to warm them up. He stops in the doorway. His smile is soft, and you stand in front of him before you realise you moved. 

John cups you face in gloved hands and kisses you. He tastes of the cold outside, of winter and also of the endless summer that is John Watson. 

“Hi.” He says, almost shy. 

“Hello, John.”

More kisses. You love the kisses. 

“You did this for me?” He raises an eyebrow and you nod. 

“You like romance.” 

John grins. “I do. Let me get my jacket off, love, and I’ll be all yours.”

You watch him undress, not taking off enough layers in your opinion. When he is in his jeans, button up shirt and horrible socks, he takes your hand and leads you to the space between your chairs. He wraps his arms around your middle. 

“Thank you. I love it.” 

He starts to sway with the music, and your hands find the back of his neck. John’s forehead rests against your shoulder as you slow dance. He is warm now, fits perfectly into the frame of your arms. Yournose follows his hairline and you take in the scent of his hair. He’s been using your shampoo. You can smell citrus and sage. It makes you proud that he smells of you. 

“John?”

“Yes, baby?” He looks up at you. 

“This was not my plan. The article said sex in front of the fireplace is very romantic. That’s what I planned.” 

John starts giggling. “You scheduled this, didn’t you?” He knows you so well. He still likes you. Loves you, even. He said so. 

You nod. 

He continues to sway and you follow his movements, chin resting on top of his head. 

“Sex in front of the fireplace sounds brilliant, love. I definitely want to do that.” John’s lips are warm against your neck.  “But first I want to just hold you. I know you love dancing.” 

“This is not about me, John. I planned this for you.”

“Darling, romance is always about both of us. I love this. I love how you put so much thought and work into this.”

“There’s a but following.” Your hands roam his back 

“Can we just …do what we feel like doing? Bin the schedule?” 

His hand finds your chin and he pulls you down into a kiss. 

“Already deleted.”

 


	8. Stakeout

The door opens with barely a sound, but Sherlock has already been awake, reading up on medieval torture methods. He puts his phone away and switches on his bedside lamp so Rosie can find her way to the bed better. She looks so small in her yellow pajamas and ruffled up hair. He lifts the duvet and she finds her place in the middle of the bed, between John and him. 

“Nightmare?” Sherlock turns to look at her. 

She shakes her head. “I can hear Santa better from here. Daddy said I can’t hide in the living room to catch him.”

“But he said nothing about hiding in here and keeping an ear open.” Sherlock finishes the thought and Rosie nods, arm wrapped about her teddy. 

Sherlock strokes her hair. He finds the idea of Santa ridiculous, of course, has never believed it for a second when he was a child. John insisted, though, so Sherlock plays along, at least for now. 

“Let’s switch off the light then, and listen.” 

Rosie scoots closer, and he wraps an arm around her. 

“We need to react to every small sound and assess if it is uncommon in our surroundings. Also, if I understand the concept right, we should be very sensitive to sounds from above us.”

“He’s landing on the roof and then he comes down through the chimney. Daddy and I put the stockings up.” Rosie whispers, as not to wake John. 

“Well, I think you and I are good enough detectives to catch an obese man in a red suit.”

Rosie grins. “But quiet now, Papa. or he won’t come.” 

  
  


In the morning, when John gets up to place the presents under the tree, Rosie is fast asleep, taking up most of the space in the bed. 

“She wanted to catch Santa.” Sherlock smiles, when John walks around the bed for their good morning kiss. 

“I bet she did. She’ll be disappointed you fell asleep.” 

“Stakeouts can be dreadful. She should learn that at an early age.”

John just smiles.  

“I’ll be sure to leave some evidence at the crime scene for the two of you to explore, then.” 

  
  



	9. Christmas Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Mystrade fic eveeer

“And I think that one is yours.” Greg grinned and handed him a present that obviously contained another knitted jumper. 

The DI had already put on his own, red with a snowman that was a little cross-eyed. 

“This is ridiculous, Gregory. Your mother is not very talented when it comes to knitting and someone should tell her.” Mycroft was sitting on his partner’s ghastly sofa in his already small living room. Greg should move in with him, Mycroft thought. This flat was tiny and rather dark and Mycroft’s apartment was better in every single way. 

“She’s an old lady.” Greg interrupted his thoughts. “She loves knitting, and I love that it makes you happy. Just put it on for a second so I can take a picture.”

“No. I refuse to be photographed in this.” 

“Pleeeaaase.” Greg put on his best smile and even attempted puppy eyes. Mycroft hated them, but they made him smile. “It can’t be worse than mine. No one but my mother will see it.” 

Mycroft removed the wrapping paper. 

“See, she even made it pinstriped, because you always wear pinstripe suits. And the Christmas tree isn’t that bad either.” 

Mycroft scoffed. 

“I have two conditions.” 

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hear them then, Mr. Government.” 

“First. You let me buy you a suit for Christmas dinner with my parents and for that you will accompany me to my tailor.” 

“I think I can manage that. What’s the second one?” 

“You will move in with me. We both prefer my apartment over yours.” 

Greg walked over on his knees and kissed him. “That’s a deal.” 

 


	10. The Mystery of the Mistletoe

They rarely fight on cases, mostly because Sherlock is always right, but this time John had to say something. Sherlock had treated the client’s sister like shit and had made horrible deductions about her in front of her entire family. 

“We all know you are the most clever person in the room. There is no fucking need to show off like that. You did that just to bully her.” John turned around to Sherlock as soon as they entered 221 and the black door had closed behind them. 

“I merely pointed out the truth in response to her…” Sherlock took off his coat. “behaviour.” He turned around to look at John. 

“What bloody behaviour?”

Sherlock moved his hand in that dramatic way that said John was wasting his time. 

“She is an idiot.” He said, and John stepped into his way, blocking the stair. 

“That is your answer to everything. This is about you behaving like an asshole to a very nice woman.” 

“Of course you thought she was nice. You think everyone is nice. She was horrible.” 

“It’s bloody Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Her sister-in-law is dead. Me pointing out that she’s having an affair is not what ruined her Christmas, John.” 

The door to Mrs. Hudson’s floor opened.

“What’s with all the yelling, boys?” 

“John thinks I was being mean.” Sherlock sounded like a five year old and John couldn’t help but grin. He lifted a hand to his mouth to cover it. 

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, turning back to her flat. “No fighting on Christmas. Now make up, dinner is almost ready.” She pointed at the ceiling above them, before she shut the door. 

John looked up. “A bloody mistletoe.” He shook his head and turned to go upstairs. This was ridiculous.

A moment later, Sherlock’s lips were on his. John gasped in surprise, but his hands were in Sherlock’s hair a second later. Their mouths tentatively moved against each other in what was more than just a kiss under the mistletoe. It was a promise, the start of something that was not new, but long awaited and seemed almost like a relief after years of waiting. Foreheads still touching, they pulled away. 

“You’re still an arsehole.” John whispered with a smile. 

“And you’re still an idiot.” Sherlock answered. 

“Do you realise Mrs. Hudson, a eighty-three year old woman, went to the trouble of fetching a ladder and placing mistletoe right on top of the stairs just so we would maybe, if the stars were lucky, kiss?” 

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and a quick kiss on his lips. 

Sherlock smiled. “Who said it was Mrs. Hudson who hung the mistletoe?” he answered with a knowing smile. 

  
  



	11. From First to Last (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next 4 ficlets are connected

1.

The first time they spend Christmas together, Sherlock is almost sixteen. The whole school knows John as the ladies’ man, the captain of the rugby team, the kid always smiling and making jokes. They love him because he is handsome and kind. 

They don’t know about his mother’s alcoholism, or that his father left the family when John was five. No knows the real reason his sister is gone is because the mother sent her away so they could get the gay out of her. They don’t know that John Watson is lonely. 

Sherlock sees. He always does. He sees the slumped shoulders and the holes in his clothes. He observes how John avoids alcohol at parties and how he never invites anybody home. Sherlock knows who John is, handsome and kind and so, so hurt.

He leaves a note on John’s desk on the last day of school. Simple words. 

_ If you prefer not to be lonely at Christmas, you can join me and my family.  _

He adds his address, signs his initials. 

His parents insist on a film night on Christmas eve and he puts on pajamas and joins them. There’s biscuits and hot chocolate and Polar Express. Mycroft came home from London and is sitting in the green armchair. His tie has a Christmas tree pattern. Mummy got it for him last year. 

The knock on the door comes as a surprise to all. Sherlock gets the door. 

John’s ears are red from the cold, and so is his nose. He is looking down at his shoes, then up at Sherlock with an unsure smile. 

“I… I know you probably meant I could join you on Christmas morning, which is really kind. I mean we don’t really know each other and to offer that is… sorry, I don’t even know what to say. It’s just, my mother is at her boyfriend’s and I…” 

He doesn’t have to say more. Sherlock just smiles and opens the door further so John can step in. He gets his shoes and jacket off and leaves his backpack in the hallway. 

Mummy hugs him, offers him cocoa and leftover mince pie. John gets a place on the sofa and a blanket and they watch movies together until father almost falls asleep around midnight. 

Sherlock carries John’s bag upstairs, and shows him to the guest room. John smiles and Sherlock observes he’s happy, and a bit uncertain of how to react. How John does react is by pulling him into a hug, and Sherlock takes in the warmth and smell of him. 

John Watson is handsome and kind and hurt and so, so brave. 

“Thank you.” John says, and for the rest of the night Sherlock is unable to sleep because he has to analyse every detail of that smile. 

 

John leaves in the early morning hours to spend Christmas morning with his mother. Sherlock is quite sure John just doesn’t want to be a burden to the Holmes family, doesn’t want to intrude. John is an idiot for thinking that way, because Sherlock had offered just that, for John to be part of today. Sherlock doesn’t try to stop him. 

 


	12. From First to Last (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 4

The second time they spend Christmas together, Sherlock is almost seventeen. He doesn’t have to leave a note on John’s desk this time. He just asks, while they are lying on Sherlock’s bed, John’s nose in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s fingers playing with the buttons on John’s shirt. 

“Will you come over for Christmas?” 

Sherlock can feel John smile into his hair. “I’d love to. I’ll have to ask Mum. Harry is back, and maybe they want to do something together, pretend to be a family for one day.” 

Sherlock turns his head to look at John. “You could come over Christmas Eve and go see Harry in the morning.” 

“And stay in the guest room?” John asks, a knowing smile on his face and Sherlock kisses that smile away. 

John Watson is handsome, and kind and hurt and brave and such a good kisser.

“If you keep being that sassy, you might.” 

 

Christmas is almost the same as the year before. Movies and hot beverages and laughter. This time, though, Sherlock is snuggled against John’s chest on the sofa and Mummy shows John baby pictures which Sherlock finds embarrassing. John made ginger nuts, because he knows Sherlock likes them.

When Mummy and father and Mycroft have gone to bed, Sherlock plays a song on his violin for John, and John has tears in his eyes. 

In the morning, John kisses him goodbye and slips out of bed to go see his family. And Sherlock doesn’t stop him. 

 


	13. From First to Last (Part 3)

The eighteenth Christmas they spend together, Sherlock is almost thirty-four. John is just now back in London and they have moved into a new flat together. 

Between boxes and stacks of books that haven’t made it into the shelves yet, there is no space for Christmas decorations or even a tree. 

And John is still recovering. The bullet wound is fascinating to look at, but it is also very scary. It is proof that John is mortal and Sherlock had, until this point, been naive enough to think nothing could ever take John away from him. Yes, he has seen death, has made murder part of his profession. He knows how cruel people are, how bloodthirsty. But who would be vicious enough to hurt John? 

Sherlock tries to be kind. He tries to manage most of the move, does the shopping, which he hates. He spends time talking to John, which he has missed over the past three years. He accompanies him to the doctors, and helps him getting dressed or showering. It’s hard, but they are together. There is no real Christmas spirit this year. It doesn’t matter. They can celebrate it next year, and the years after. 

On Christmas Eve, Sherlock comes home from the Yard around nine. He got wine and take away, so they can have a lazy evening on the sofa. 

John is sitting on the sofa, turned so he won’t put pressure on his shoulder. He smiles, and Sherlock thinks there is less pain on his face today. He places his bags on the living room table and leans down to kiss him. He has missed John’s kisses. 

They spend Christmas Eve like they always have, on the sofa with a movie and cuddles. 

Sherlock can’t imagine anything better. Maybe this moment of peace is what the holiday is all about. 

 

In the morning, Sherlock wakes up on the mattress in what will be their bedroom. He can hear John in the kitchen, and ignores the impulse to get up and help him with the kettle. He knows John has to learn to do things on his own again, even if his shoulder hurts and he struggles with using his non-dominant hand. Sherlock doing everything for him won’t help him in the long run, so the detective forces himself to stay in bed this morning. 

John’s hand is shaking slightly, but he doesn’t spill a single drop of tea. 

“Happy Christmas,” he says and hands Sherlock the mugs. 

“Marry me,” Sherlock says, because John is handsome and kind and a good kisser and perfect husband material.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick since Sunday. Uploading for the Advent calender is the highlight of my day :D   
> Thank you guys so much for reading


	14. From First to Last (Part 4)

The last Christmas they spend together, Sherlock is almost eighty-four. 

He doesn’t have to ask John to spend Christmas together. They have done this for sixty-four years, not counting the years Sherlock was gone and those John spent in Afghanistan. 

John makes ginger nuts and brings some to their neighbours. They buy a tree and decorate it together. 

Sherlock puts violin music on, his hands too weak to play himself, and wraps his arms around his husband as they watch the snow outside. John is calm these days, and Sherlock is scared. Change is coming, and they both know it. 

“It’s cold,” John says, and Sherlock thinks of the boy with the red cheeks and nose standing on his parents’ front porch so many years ago. 

Sherlock kisses his shoulder and pulls him to the sofa, where they put a blanket over their legs and hold each other. 

“This might be our last.” John says. He sounds peaceful. 

“Then let’s make it the best.” Sherlock whispers. “Just the two of us.” 

 

They wake up in the morning and exchange presents. They take a walk to the lake. To warm up, they take a bath and wash each other. 

And Sherlock looks at John even more than he usually does. He must not forget a single detail of John’s face, because John Watson-Holmes is handsome and kind and hurt and brave and a good kisser and the love of his life. 

 


	15. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is not Christmas-y and a little angsty  
> Warning for drug use and blood

  1. Ink



The first one is an anatomically correct heart. He gets it in a small tattoo shop somewhere in a back alley in a country he doesn’t even remember the name of. It’s one of those evenings. He misses home and the pain is almost unbearable, his body feeling like he really hit the ground next to Bart’s hospital and every bone inside of him is broken.

    Machine, that’s what John called him. He wishes he felt like a machine, it would be easier.

   John. Thinking of him hurts the most, knowing John is currently in London starting a new life, a life without Sherlock. He himself doesn’t have a life, he just exists for the sake of the plan. Until then, he is just a big brain getting carried around by his means of transport, a weakened, pale body.

   It now also carries his tattoo right where his heart is beating in his chest, bold lines in white ink, which are barely visible as they don’t differ much from his skin tone. It’s not for others to see. It’s his, hidden from the people just as much as he hides his real heart.

   At night, he lays awake and his fingers follow the lines and curves that raise less than a millimetre from his ribs. It helps to convince him he’s still human. He has a heart, just like everyone else and he has proof of that under his fingers, more proof then just the beating in his chest. His heart is there and whoever will look close enough can see it.

 

   He returns to London and John, of course, is hurt and angry and engaged. He has expected this, of course, but somewhere deep inside he hoped they could just return to normal.

   Baker Street is so empty, even with the cases and the buzz of the city outside. Still, the pain is bearable knowing he’s back in the heart of London where he belongs.

   He finds the drawing between his notes, where Mycroft has put them into boxes. He drew it years ago, just a sketch of his violin leaning against a stack of books. Maybe, he thinks, it’s that little something people call destiny. He needs this.

   Whenever he is not almost getting blown up by a bomb in a train or saving John from being burnt alive (He was never this scared before. He can’t lose John when he has just come back into his life) he’s working on the drawing until it feels perfect.

   He considers a few tattoo artists, until he one day walks into Jenna’s shop. She’s in her late twenties, a small, round woman with bright eyes and very talented hands. She looks at his sketch and adds a few details he hadn’t even considered, and that’s when he knows he can trust her with this.

   It takes eight hours of pain and weirdly good conversation and even laughter until it’s done. There he is in only his boxers standing in front of the large mirror, Jeanna standing back, studying his reaction and all he can do is gape. His thigh is covered in black ink and he has only the pain to prove this is not coal on paper. It bleeds, but not too bad.

The tattoo burns while he tries to teach John how to dance, but the pain of John stepping on his toes is worse. Having John close is good. He smells a little bit like Mary, but mostly like himself and Sherlock missed him. The heart next to his chest is beating in rhythm with the one inside.

 

 

    He returns to Jenna and his veins are filled with heroin. He’s good at hiding it, but the marks on his arms tell another story. He’s just glad the bruises from where John hit him are now healed.

    He made the sketch with shaking fingers, almost addicted to the needle that pushes ink into his upper dermis. It’s better than the one he used on himself to prove Culverton Smith is a serial killer. She doesn’t ask questions, already knows him this well after only one day spent together. He read, somewhere, that tattooing is more intimate than sex, not that he would know.

   She thinks it’s just a skull, and she has probably done hundreds of those. She doesn’t know it’s the skull of the most perfect human being, inspired of years of watching that human every day. He had taken measurements during their first year of being flat mates. 

   Jenna cleans the skin of his inner upper arm.

   The Tattoo is still not healed when they fight Eurus, and when he tells Molly he loves her he thinks of John’s skull on his skin and feels as if he is somehow betraying John, even though he knows the good doctor doesn’t love him back.

 

 

    Rosie splashes her baby food through the whole kitchen and her giggle is a beautiful symphony. Sherlock rolls back his sleeve and continues to try and feed her. She, different from her father, understands food just slows down her transport and prefers flinging it.

   John is getting ready for work, humming a song as he showers and shaves. It’s a scene of domestic bliss and Sherlock takes in every detail to never forget. There is a John and Rosie wing in his mind palace and it is rapidly running out of space. He will have to add a few rooms soon, a winter garden filled with light.

Light. Conductor of light.

   John smells like Sherlock’s shower gel and wet hair and John. Sherlock wants to tattoo this scent onto his own skin to always be able to have access to it.

   Rosie is coaxed into eating two spoonfuls of mashed peas and Sherlock is weirdly proud to have achieved even that. He wipes away food from her eyebrow and places a kiss there. Her hand finds his cheek, warm and chubby and Sherlock smiles. This endlessly fascinating little girl has conquered his heart within the short time she has lived in 221B and he didn’t even try to stop her.

   “What is that?” John is standing behind him, looking over his shoulder and it takes Sherlock an embarrassingly long time to realize what his question is directed at.

   His newest tattoo is two weeks old, four roses on his wrist. The negative space between them shows the silhouette of a little girl. He took his favourite picture of little Watson to Jenna and she, again, did an impeccable job.

   Now, with his sleeves rolled up, it is visible to John and Sherlock blushes. His sentiment is too obvious now and he feels vulnerable.

   “Oh.” The sound is incredibly soft coming from John’s throat. “You got this for her.”

   All Sherlock can do is nod, but when he looks up at his best friend, the man he loves, John has tears in his eyes. Having learned from the last time, Sherlock gets up to hug him. They hold each other for a while and the embrace ends in giggles, as they realize Sherlock has smeared baby food on John.

 

 

   Sherlock stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom, fingers, as they often do, tracing the lines of his very first tattoo. Now long healed, he can barely feel it anymore, but he knows exactly where the lines cross and tangle. The movement has through the years become a way to calm himself, but now he has to avoid the bullet wound right at the centre of it.

   The mattress dips next to him as John rolls to his side, hand covering Sherlock’s where it lies on his sternum.

   They are naked underneath the duvet, John’s skin warm where they touch, and Sherlock presses himself even closer. John leans over him, taking away his hand and his lips press to the altered skin. He can’t see the tattoo, they turned the light off before going to bed, but he has seen it before, has traced every inch of it with his fingers and tongue.

   Every soft touch has made Sherlock fall in love more, his heart beating fast and hard, like it could burst with joy at every moment.

   John doesn’t know the skull is modelled after his. Sherlock doesn’t need to tell him for John to know how much he is adored.  

 

  John’s tattoos are small. Sherlock holds his hand, while Jenna works, but John is strong and brave, he doesn’t even wince.

 

  The motifs he picked are very small and the lettering is done in a very delicate but clean way to fit both John’s kindness and military background.

 

SH

RW

 

  John has never been a man of many words, but always finds the right ones. The important ones.

 


	16. Clever Girl

“Lock?” 

Sherlock looked up from his laptop at Rosamund Mary Watson, who was standing in the kitchen doorway in her pink pajamas. 

“You should be in bed, honey bee.” Sherlock checked his watch. It’s two in the morning. “Even Daddy is already in bed.” Come to think of it, Sherlock should maybe be joining him there soon. 

Rosie nodded and climbed onto Sherlock’s lap, head resting against his chest. “I know. I want to talk to you alone, when Daddy is asleep.” 

Sherlock stroked her hair. He would need to take new measurements soon. She had surely grown at least five centimeters since the last time. 

“Daddy said Santa doesn’t bring presents for adults.” She fiddled with one of his shirt buttons. “I know Santa isn’t real. I know Daddy buys me all the gifts.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Clever girl.” 

“But if Daddy buys my toys, who buys things for Daddy?”  Blue eyes looked up at him. 

The detective wrapped his arms around his daughter. 

“I have twenty pounds from Nana Holmes from my birthday still. Can we go buy Daddy something for Christmas?” 

Sherlock kissed the top of her head. “He’s working late tomorrow. I’ll pick you up from school and we can go have a look.” 

Rosie grinned. “Yes! He needs a new jumper. His others are ridiculous.” 

Sherlock burst into giggles. “Very clever girl, indeed.” 


	17. Fancy that!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myyyystraaadee

“You really are an idiot, Graham. My brother controls CCTV. He can check on everything I do. Always. He doesn’t need your little reports on my health. He knows I’m still sober, whether you tell him or not.” Sherlock spoke quietly, but his voice was filled with anger. “I know are doing this to help me, going behind my back. But it’s unnecessary. He just orders you to his office every week because he fancies you.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “I meet up with your brother because you are an recovering addict and he worries about you. I am your friend, Sherlock. I worry too.”

“He fancies you.” Sherlock pouts and stomps off. 

 

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, as Greg entered his office. “My brother has, as you well know, the tendency to be a drama queen. Don’t listen to what he says. I really value the information you forward to me, Gregory. Sherlock’s recovery is very important to me.” 

“Go out with me?” 

Greg had never, in the two years they had known each other, caught Mycroft by surprise and now he felt a little proud looking at the astonished face Mycroft was making. 

“Excuse me?”

Greg sat down, smiling. “I know we do this because you love your brother and want to keep him safe. And I know Sherlock tried to get back at you by saying what he said. Doesn’t change the fact that I would love to go out on a date with you.” 

He found the smile on Mycroft’s face endearing. “I’ll pick you up at eight, then, Gregory.” 


	18. Cozy

I wanted to escape the busy city for Christmas. As much as I love the city, love Baker Street, people here get even more stressed in the weeks before the holiday. 

I suggested spending it with the Holmes parents again, but they had planned a two week cruise to the Mediterranean. And then Sherlock surprised me by booking a cottage in the French Alps just for us. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that the house we were going to stay in was the scene of a murder ten years ago, and that Sherlock wanted to solve the cold case, but I didn’t care. Hell, I hadn’t been part of a murder investigation in months. This would be fun. 

So, on the twenty-second, we packed our bags and Mycroft had one of his minions drive us to Heathrow. 

Rosie was so excited. She had never been on a plane and talked about nothing else for days.

From the plane we got on a train, then a rented car. Let me tell you, driving those small, curvy roads in the snow is hell. But the view was amazing. The mountains, the trees. Maybe it’s just me as an English guy speaking, but that’s the most gorgeous thing ever. And then, all the snow on top of the trees, and roofs. Just brilliant. 

The cottage is at the end of a road. Behind it, there’s only woods and hills and snow. Inside, it’s very cozy. The walls are panelled with wood, and the furniture is at least two decades old. We have two bedrooms and a room that is both kitchen and living room.

Yesterday, we spent the evening playing board games in front of the fireplace, which is not as much fun as you might think with Sherlock Holmes in the room. He gets very competitive, but so does Rosie. Let’s just say I had a lot of hot chocolate to endure it.

I know I don’t supply details about my daughter. She deserves a normal childhood, and the press can be mean. Right now I am sitting by the window with a cup of tea, watching her running around in the snow with Sherlock. She has the brightest little smile. 

After all we went through, we are finally at a really good point in our lives. Wishing you a Happy Christmas, from my family to yours. 


	19. Kisses

Too long. It’s been too long. 

You crowd John against the door and press your mouth against his. He huffs, but answers your kiss, lips cool and soft. You kiss him hungrily, worry his bottom lip with your teeth. His hair is soft between your fingers and you pull on it slightly. He makes those wonderful sounds and it's been too long since you heard them, caused them to escape from his throat. 

You press your body closer to his. His coat his cool from the air outside, but the body underneath is warm. Your hands chase that warmth, until they find skin. 

There is a thump when John’s bags drop to the floor and you pull back slightly. 

He raises an eyebrow. It’s not a “not good” eyebrow raise, though. 

“Someone missed me.” John touches your lips with his left thumb. 

“It’s been too long.” You complain. 

He giggles. “I went to Tesco for thirty minutes.” 

“See. Too long.” 

John smiles softly, and kisses you. “Too long indeed.” 


	20. Christmas Cards

Dear John, Sherlock, and Rosie, 

 

We wanted to wish you a very Happy Christmas filled with love and laughter. And may success and happiness knock on your door throughout the New Year! 

  
  


Lots of love,

 

Mike and Beth Stamford

aka the last people on earth still doing Christmas cards 

 

PS: It felt great to address this card to Mr. and Dr. Watson-Holmes. 

PSS: I am still waiting for my fruit basket. I was the one to introduce the two of you after all. 


	21. SH

[10:34:]: How is it going?

[10:41]: Well. SH

[10:41]: As expected. SH

[10:42]: Wish I could be there. Bored out of my mind here.

[10:42]: As expected. SH

[10:44]: You were the one to insist on being part of that ridiculous conference. SH

[10:45]: I know. What have you been up to?

[10:55]: This. SH

[10:55]: [photo attachment]

[10:56]: We found being inside to be dull. Going on an adventure now. SH

[10:58]: That’s lovely. Have fun.

[10:58]: Where are you going to?

[11:04]: Playground. SH

[11:07]: I might not answer for a while. I am quite busy. SH

[11:08]: [photo attachment]

[11:08]: Love the pigtails. I never quite manage them.

[11:20]: Watson insisted. SH

[11:21]: I think she is making a friend. It surprises me how quickly toddlers decide they like someone. SH

[11:21]: Especially since 2-year-olds don’t have very interesting personalities. Except for Watson, of course. She is very interesting indeed. SH

[11:22): I think you are a little biased in that respect, love. Not that I mind. I think she’s the best baby as much as you do.

[11:23]: Reproduction was a very good decision on your part indeed. SH

[11:24]: Ta :*

[11:58]: I am afraid Rosie can’t see her friend again. The mother is ridiculously annoying. She insisted on flirting with me. Having a toddler with me should have been indication enough that I am not interested in a so-called fling. SH

[12:01]: I understand her reasoning. You’re a very handsome man.

[12:02]: I can put a ring on it if you’d rather avoid further female attention :P

[12:03]: If that is supposed to be a proposal, I must inform you that it is very much not romantic. SH

[12:03]: No worries, you’ll get your romantic proposal, candlelight and all.

[12:04]: So much for the surprise. SH

[12:04]: As if I could ever surprise you 😊

[01:35]: I am sorry I did not answer your last text. Watson fell off the swing. She is fine but decided she did not want to remain at the playground anymore. SH

[01:37]: As it is time for her nap soon, I decided on a little walk. I have a suspect to observe anyway. The pushchair will be a perfectly adequate disguise. SH

[01:40]: She’ll hate being part of a case while asleep 😊

[01:42]: She won’t know. SH

[01:59]: Watson is asleep now. SH

[02:30]: Lunch break. How’s the observation going?

[02:35]: Case solved. Gavin is currently arresting the suspect for illegal trade of firearms. SH

[02:36]: He was not armed while Watson was within his reach. SH

[02:40]: I do trust you with her, you know. You’re not a complete idiot most of the time.

[02:41]: How kind of you to say. SH

[02:43]: Watson is awake. We will have cuddles and then lunch after, I think. SH

[02:44]: Sounds wonderful. Miss you.

[02:45]: You are missed as well. SH

[02:56]: [photo attachment]

[03:03]: She insisted on taking a photo of me as well. SH

[03:04]: I think she’s really talented. You look adorable when you try to be all serious.

[03:05]: Shut up. SH

[05:10]: We just arrived at Baker Street. SH

[05:12]: Story time. Off my phone now. SH

[05:13]: Peter Rabbit?

[05:14]: Yes. SH

[06:20]: On my way home now. I can pick up some take-away if you like.

[06:45]: Love?

[06:50]: Arriving at Euston soon. Are you home?

[07:25]: We apparently fell asleep on the sofa. Food would be appreciated. SH

“I can see that. It’s good to be home.”

 


	22. Let it Snow

John was in the kitchen chopping some vegetables for their Christmas dinner, when Rosie entered the kitchen with a look that seemed unusually shy. She was still wearing her pretty burgundy and white dress, but had pulled the bows out of her hair about two hours ago, after announcing (loudly) how annoying they were. 

“Daddy?” 

John turned to her, potato and peeler in hand. “Hmm?” 

“Daddy, I have a present for you.” 

“A present?” John put everything down and cleaned his hands. “But you already gave me your amazing drawing this morning.” 

She beamed at him, very proud of the Santa she had painted at kindergarten. “One more present.” She insisted, pulling John to the living room. Raising an eyebrow, John followed her. 

He spotted Sherlock at the window, violin and bow in his hands. He looked beautiful in the dim light of the Christmas tree, pale skin shimmering golden. Rosie let go of John, running towards the detective.  From the sofa, she picked up a child-sized violin John had never seen before.

“Please sit down, Dr. Watson. The show is about to begin.” Sherlock bowed his head with a smile. 

“My own private concert?” John chuckled as he took a seat in his armchair. 

He heard Sherlock count to three, and then the two of them started playing. Rosie was a little off, of course. The bow screeched a little against the strings, and she lost rhythm halfway through, but John didn’t care. This was beautiful. The thought of Sherlock and Rosie practicing this for him, Sherlock taking the time to teach Rosie something he loved, those gestures were more important than “Let it Snow”. 

Never, when they moved back to Baker Street two years ago, had he imagined how close his best friend and his daughter would become. A family. They were a family now, Sherlock as much of a parent to Rosie as John was. 

John realised he was crying when the song ended, applauding as Sherlock and Rosie held hands and bowed, one, two, three times. 

 


	23. The Three Garridebs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Wonderful fic by my online best friend, Ember88. Thank you :D

John had been imprisoned for more than 5 hours. He wasn’t even mad anymore. The Garridebs hadn’t done anything to him. John wondered if they had forgotten him in this closet. He had tried shouting to no avail, and he was just incredibly bored now.

Why was he always the one getting kidnapped? It was becoming very tedious indeed. John could already hear Sherlock gloating at the coming Christmas party about rescuing him… again. 

 

But the hours were passing, and still no sign of Sherlock. Doubt was beginning to show its ugly head. John wondered if sherlock even realized he was missing. 

The genius had the annoying habit of talking to him when he wasn’t there, carrying on conversations without his input. It was unnerving… and a little endearing too, he had to admit. John liked to think it meant he was important to the detective. 

But it was just wishful thinking on his part.

John sighted for the hundredth time. It was not what he had planned for their Christmas holiday… He had wanted to try test the waters with Sherlock and feelings, maybe trying… well… John didn’t exactly know what he had hoped. Obviously he wasn’t very high on the detective’s list of priorities. 

His wannabe kidnappers the Garrideb brothers were not masterminds by any means - he was being kept in the closet of their fucking office. He had been there just this morning with Sherlock.

Shit. 

What was Sherlock doing?

His shoulder was killing him.

 

“Hello Dr Watson. Not too uncomfortable I hope.” said the grating voice of Henry Garrideb. “disappointed I’m not your boyfriend?”

 

A flash of light, the blindfold being removed, John could see the face of the eldest of the brothers. The man was clearly very pleased with himself. Not a inch of worry on this face. What the hell? 

 

“You should run while you can,” John spat. The calm and tranquility he could read on the man was unnerving him more than any clear threat. 

 

“Oh I wouldn’t count on the great Sherlock Holmes to save you. We broke him, he won’t even think about searching for you here.” Henry gloated.

 

John was sure his heart stopped beating for a second. “What… What did you do to Sherlock? If you hurt him, I swear, I will end you.”

 

The man dared to laugh, “Excuse me, Dr Watson if I don’t find you very frightening. And to answer your question about Mr Holmes, we killed you.”

 

“What?”

  
  


“Don’t worry Dr Watson. I am not a murderer, I won’t kill you. All we needed was for Sherlock Holmes to believe you dead.”

 

“What?” John felt like he was being particularly dumb repeating himself, “You’re making no sense.”

 

“You know, my brothers are proper geniuses too. They can make any kind of film or video you need and the best computer analyst won’t be able to tell shit from truth.”

 

The dreadful feeling had come back in full force, John was now afraid he understood too well what the Garridebs had done. 

 

“No. You didn’t…”

 

“Yes, we used our footage of you and made some… lovely adjustments. Sherlock won’t be looking for you because he thinks there is nothing to save. Your death is giving us all the time we need to prepare our escape to our safe place. By the time they  understand, we will be far away.”

 

“No. Even if Sherlock believes me dead, he will seek to find and destroy you even more!”

 

“Who said you were killed by us? No, you were the unfortunate victim of a tragic accident. Your cabbie you see, lost the control of his car and fell in the Thames. All my brother had to do was to change the license plate and an old footage becomes the last recording of your life! So you see, your Sherlock is in no state to do any sleuthing of any sort, too occupied to mourn you. My spies reported to me the great detective is completely broken by your death and has not left 221B since.”

 

“You WHAT ????” John shouted, “How could you… Sherlock… He won’t buy it!”

 

“Well, if he indeed begins to investigate your demise too soon, we are not against using violence. You won’t be there to be his guard dog after all.”

 

John’s stomach dropped. How dare they threaten Sherlock! And the thing was, it was a likely scenario. He could picture Sherlock running someplace without a thought about his own safety and falling in a trap, being hurt… maybe even being killed…

Nope. Not an option. 

John closed his eyes to try and stop the flow of anguish the mere idea of Sherlock being in danger had provoked. It was his job to make sure the detective stayed safe. 

 

Cold anger slowly replaced the fear. Captain Watson knew how to use it to trigger an adrenaline shot. Anger was a very useful tool he had learned to use in a fight.

 

When he opened his eyes again, he was ready. Henry Garrideb, not so much. 

 

Ten minutes later, John was running outside the building, one shoulder dislocated but a small price to pay to break free from his ropes. He was after all in better shape than Henry, actually unconscious on the floor. The man would be in need of medical attention but it really wasn’t his priority.

 

When John finally arrived at the flat, he climbed the stairs shouting, “Sherlock !”. But he froze when he opened the door of the living room. 

 

It was… the apocalypse. All the furniture was all over the place. The table was broken as if it had been thrown against the wall. What the hell had happened? Who could have ransacked the place? Why? The Garrideb had no reason to... 

 

“Sherlock? Where are you? Are you okay?” Worry had returned with a vengeance and John ran to the bedroom, hoping to find the detective. 

 

“Sherlock?” The bedroom was in the same state as the rest of the flat, the bed upside down, not a stick of furniture having been spared. In the chaos, John almost didn’t see the man curled up in one of the corner of the room.

 

“Sherlock?” John tried again, more quietly, wondering if maybe the man had been attacked. “Sherlock? Are you okay? It’s me, John, I am coming to you. Sherlock?”

 

When John finally got closer, he could see that Sherlock had curled up, head against his knees, hands in his hair, pulling hard. 

 

He was muttering so quietly John didn’t understand immediately. “John, John, John, dead, your fault, your fault he’s dead, John.”

 

“No, no, no, Sherlock, I’m not dead, I’m here!” 

 

“Don’t listen, just your mind tricking you, John is dead… dead...dead. He left me.” Sherlock was keeping his eyes shut and John felt like his heart was breaking at the sight of his despair. 

 

“Sherlock, I am here, I promise it’s me. I am going to touch you, okay, don’t… don’t be afraid. It’s me. John. ” 

 

John tentatively put his hand on Sherlock’s, trying to ease the hard pulling on his hair. 

At the touch, Sherlock violently jerked away, his eyes blown open.

 

“What! What are you!”

 

“Sherlock, it’s me. I promise it’s me, John. Please.”

 

A joyless laugh escaped the tall man’s mouth, “My god, I am so out of it I am hallucinating John!”

 

“Sherlock! Look at me! Deduce, you great idiot!” John shouted with an hint of Captain Watson in his voice.

 

That seemed to shut the detective long enough to enable him to do it.  

 

“You were held captive, you dislocated your shoulder to escape. Are you… Are you really here? I saw… I saw you…” 

For the first time, John watched the great man failing to finish a sentence because it had to do with death and John.

 

Suddenly Sherlock shouted, “Mrs Hudson !!!!!”

 

“What…?” John tried to ask, when the old landlady promptly came into the room. 

 

“Sherlock! What did you do to the place! I’m warning you, young man, I’m adding the price of the furniture onto your rent !”

 

“Mrs Hudson! Do you see John?” He asked violently, apparently trying not to shake her but clearly on the verge of failing. 

 

“Of course I see him. I have perfect eyesight for my age!”

 

“You see him, you can actually see him. It’s not John from my mind palace. John is actually here. John is not dead. John!”

 

The despair in the tall man face finally lifted and suddenly John was being hugged. 

“John!” Sherlock cried. His shoulder wasn’t exactly enjoying all the squeezing, but John couldn’t care less. He had an armful of the lanky detective, he was in paradise. Mrs Hudson, bless her, left them, although not without making some terrible innuendos first. 

But Sherlock must have perceived something because suddenly he pulled back.

 

“John! You’re hurt!” 

 

“Sherlock, calm down. It’s just dislocated. I will need your help to put it back in its socket.” John tried to reassure his friend who was frantically checking him everywhere he could put his hands on. If Sherlock wasn’t so clearly distressed, John would have actually enjoyed it. 

 

After resetting his shoulder, Sherlock was still obviously distressed. John would never had thought such emotionalism laid hidden beyond the cold mask he wore most of the time. Watching the man’s emotions about his death awoke a hope John had believed buried.

 

“Sherlock, I am okay. See, I can move my arm.”

 

“John, you should be angry. Why are you not angry?”

 

“Angry? Why should I be angry at you?” 

 

“Oh John, are you truly an idiot? I should have been able to deduce there was something wrong with that footage. I let emotion blind me! I can already hear Mycroft, Caring is not an advantage, it’s found on the losing side! John, I let my feelings for you control me and I let you down. I didn’t save you. You could have died. Really died! And it would have been my fault!”

 

Sherlock finally shut up, out of breath.

 

“Feelings? For me ?” John’s heart had nearly stopped at Sherlock’s little speech and was now about to jump out of his chest. 

 

“Yes, John. Are you deaf?”

 

“Oh. Oh, you wonderful man!”

 

John took matters in his own hands. Literally. And pulled the tall man down to kiss him!

“You, my beautiful man, are the only one who can manage a love confession and an insult at the same time and still be successful!” John gleefully laughed at the flabbergasted face between his hands.

 

“Confession? Oh.” And the detective flushed red at the realisation, making John laugh even more.

 

“Unintentional confession it seems! But Sherlock, you were wrong.”

 

“Wrong?” There were so many emotions battling on Sherlock’s face, worry and affronted were the most obvious.

 

“Yes, love. Caring for you, wanting to protect you gave me the… incentive to free myself to find you. So you see. Sentiment. Not always on the losing side. Because I am feeling lots of things, but not losing. Definitely not losing. But you will have to make a choice, Sherlock. Do you want this for us?” John finished on a serious tone. 

 

“Love? Me? You?”

 

“I hope I haven’t broken you, not a complete sentence yet.” John tried to joke, feeling more and more exposed and worried about the man’s reaction. After all, the detective could still not want a relationship with him. Simple John. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I want you! I can’t accept a reality where you’re not beside me; look what I have done to the place I think about as home!” Sherlock said, interrupting John’s silent self-doubt. “It’s not home anymore if you’re not here! You! You are the one who should be thinking, are you sure John? I am me. I am dangerous to be around”

 

“And yet, here I am.”

John put once more his hands on the lovely face, but much more carefully, almost reverently, “Sherlock, you are the greatest man I have ever known, and I love you. I don’t need safe. I need you. All I ask is your promise that you will always try your hardest to come back to me, as I promise you the same.”

 

“Yes.”

 

There weren’t many other words after that. Their mouths much more interested in knowing each other intimately. 

John didn’t know how long they kept kissing and kissing. Some of the kisses were  full of passion and hunger, others were soft and reassuring. 

 

At some point, they ended up in John’s bed, the only place Sherlock hadn’t ransacked in his rage and grief. 

They finally slept, holding tightly to each other, both needing the reassurance. 

 

Sherlock was the first to wake up, the infuriating git! He had a serious look on his face, betraying some hard thinking process.

 

“What are you thinking about so hard so early in the morning?” John asked, not without warmth.

 

“You. What you said. Yesterday. Hum… it sounded awfully like a …. proposal.” Sherlock finally explained. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 


	24. Perfect Christmas

John was angry. He was also tired, and exhausted and covered in mud. 

He had planned their perfect Christmas, invited their closest friends. They could have 

had a lovely party with Sherlock playing the violin and Mike telling them about his trip to New York City. Molly would have made a few of her weird comments, but would have been lovely and nice as always. Greg and John could have had a glass of gin and a discussion on football. When their guests were gone, John would have dragged his boyfriend to the bedroom to celebrate their first Christmas as a couple in a very different way. John had looked forward to that very much. 

And then a client called and John was dragged from his decorating into a car which took them to Oxford. 

John loved cases. He loved the chase, and the deductions, and the way people reacted to Sherlock’s brilliance. 

What he didn’t like was the rain and the cold and the fact that they had waited outside a farm building for four fucking hours for the owner to finally go to bed, only for Sherlock to realise within five minutes inside the house that the man couldn’t have been the murderer. 

And when Sherlock figured out it was the gardener of all people, John chased the man, who was only wearing pyjamas, from the house into the woods. 

It was dark and John almost got him, when he tripped and fell. He landed on soft ground, not hurting himself, but when he got up he was covered in mud. 

Cursing, John watched as Sherlock and a police officer caught up with the man to arrest him. This was a shitty Christmas indeed. 

John just wanted to go home and curl up in bed and have a good old sulk. He knew he was being childish right now, and that finding a hotel would probably be a better idea. 

Still, he insisted on Sherlock calling Mycroft, so he would send a car. He was allowed to warm up a little at the police station. They offered him tea, which tasted horrible, and he was in no mood to lighten up just because of small friendly gestures from strangers. 

Finally in the car, he got his jacket off. The mud on it was mostly dried by now, and started flaking off. It felt uncomfortable on his trousers, but he refused to strip them off in front of Mycroft’s driver. Huffing, John rested his head against the window, wrapping his arms around himself. There was nothing to do but to wait until they arrived home, and John planned on spending the drive in a sulk. He knew what they had accomplished was important, but being cold, dirty, and tired felt like the holy trinity of a miserable Christmas, a miserable man. 

Sherlock moved next to him, and a moment later John was wrapped in wonderful warmth. The coat smelled so much like Sherlock that John couldn’t help but bury his nose in the soft fabric. 

“I’m sorry, John. This, tonight, was unfortunate.” Sherlock’s mouth touched his ear as he spoke, and the older man leaned against him. 

“No, I’m sorry for being such an arse about it. This is hardly the first time we’ve spent hours and hours on a stake-out.” 

“But it’s Christmas. You have been looking forward to the celebrations.” 

“We can invite them over for New Years. Can’t change it now anyway.”  

Long fingers found his jaw, stroking from ear to jaw and back. “You are still upset.” Sherlock stated, not a hint of a question. 

“Hmm, yeah.” John opened his eyes. “I was looking forward to the party. Now I only want a hot bath and then our bed.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “That sounds perfect to me.” 

John rubbed his jaw against his boyfriend’s. “I bet you are relieved not to have to pretend to be nice to our friends for a whole evening.” 

“You are being very observant today, Doctor Watson.” 

“Nah, I don’t think so. I just know you well enough.” 

They kissed, and John, surrounded by the smell and warmth and love of Sherlock Holmes, forgot all about the dirt and cold. They held each other, snuggled up in the back of the car, until the first lights of London appeared outside. 

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “And thank you for making it the best Christmas yet.” 

 


	25. +1 Home

Baker Street is not his home anymore. Still, when Lestrade and Molly ring the bell, he is the one to open the door take their coats.

They haven’t even made it up the stairs when Mike and his wife arrive, and then Mycroft. John shakes hands and leads them up to the flat.

Baker Street is not his home anymore. Still, John sits and chats with the guests and hands glasses of wine to Greg and Mycroft. He’s the one to cut the turkey.

Baker Street is not his home anymore. Still, when Rosie is asleep in Sherlock’s bed and all their guests have gone home, John clears the table and does the dishes. And that’s when he realizes what he is doing. This is not his home anymore, no matter how much he wants it. John closes his eyes for a second. Tonight has been brilliant. He wants all their Christmases in the future to be like this. He just wants to come back, come home. He wants Rosie to grow up here (minus the hazardous experiments). 

John realizes he is holding back tears. It surprises him that this would make him cry. He had accepted this, hadn’t he? He would always be Sherlock’s friend, his best friend, but they couldn’t go back to their old ways, not with all that had happened, not with Rosie. Why then, did this still feel like home? 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice comes from right behind him and a moment later, strong arms wrap around him. John sinks into the warmth of Sherlock. He feels immediately safe. 

“Come home.” Sherlock says softly, and John feels a new wave of tears. 

Baker Street isn’t home. Sherlock Holmes is home. He had missed him for too long. And now John could finally come home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I hope you liked my Advent calender. It was a lot of fun to write. Thank you again to my beta Readers, Amelia and Kim, who did such amazing work. I couldn't have done it without you.   
> Also, thank you to Ember88 for your Story :D   
> Merry Christmas!


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